False Pretences (7 page)

‘It will have to be in the daytime. She's not up to anything by supper time.'

That meant eating into her work hours. Oh well. ‘I'll see what I can do.'

‘Bless you.' Another heavy sigh. He disconnected.

Rearranging her social life for the following week in her mind, Bea prepared to set aside some time for her daughter-in-law. Summer was a busy time in the agency, because people needed replacements for staff going on holiday. If she saw Nicole one afternoon, she'd have to work late that evening to make up for it.

What did she have on next week? She couldn't think. Ah, she'd promised to go with her infuriating though sometimes helpful first husband Piers to a show at an art gallery one night. Which day? He hadn't said, had he? His latest painting would no doubt be on show at some fantastic price. Piers was doing very well indeed nowadays, thank you.

Seeing Nicole wasn't that important, was it? Hm. Perhaps it was. Max had sounded really worried about her. Bea tried to make herself feel sorry for Nicole and failed. Oh dear. Was she turning into a legendary bad mother-in-law? Well, tough. Work was more important, wasn't it?

Well, actually; not. She sighed. All right, all right. She'd find time for Nicole somehow.

Downstairs she decided against a cooked breakfast and switched the kettle on.

Oliver padded in, yawning. ‘Are we having a full English breakfast today? Maggie's not up yet.'

Bea clicked her fingers. ‘I had your guru round here last night, Mr Cambridge. He said there was a rave-up at his place. Were you there?'

‘Me, Maggie and a dozen others. Watching a rough cut of a film Chris has been making in Docklands. Weird stuff but brilliant. He was trying out various bits of music for the soundtrack, and we voted on what worked and what didn't.'

Bea opened her eyes very wide. ‘You never cease to amaze me. I thought it would be all cans of beer and maybe an illicit smoke.'

‘No, no. Serious stuff. Chris never wanted to go to uni but doesn't really know what he does want to do. He shoots film at weekends, holidays. Mr C says Chris can leave uni if he proves he can make a short film which is accepted by some organization or other, I forget their name, something very Establishment.'

Bea was silent. Oliver had been on track to go to university himself, until he'd found pornography on his father's laptop and been thrown out of the house. Another whistle-blower who'd got hurt.

Bea had suggested he reapply for another year, but he'd said he wanted to stand on his own two feet. She hoped he wasn't going to change his mind as she didn't know what they'd do at the agency without him.

‘Chris is Mr Cambridge's only son?'

‘Mm. Married late, wife died a couple of years back. Shall I grill some bacon, then?' Clearly, he really wanted a cooked breakfast. Bea didn't, particularly, but got out the bacon, anyway. ‘Was Zander one of the crowd last night?'

‘Not his scene. I'm glad he decided not to go back to work. I'm sure we can find him something better.'

‘Mr Cambridge wants him to do so and to report any abuse to the police.'

Oliver poured half a box of cereal into his own large bowl and added milk. ‘Zander won't want to. I don't blame him.'

A delicate subject. ‘Have you ever experienced abuse?'

‘Everyone does. It depends how you deal with it. We had a spot of name-calling at school, but it was all fairly good-natured. You just spat out a few names in return. Scumbag. White-face. That sort of thing. I'm part Asian, which makes a difference. Zander's father was from Africa; Sierra Leone. Africans get more flack than Asians, I think.' He shovelled cereal into his mouth. He was growing fast and beginning to fill out. He ate as much as Maggie and Bea put together.

She wondered, ‘Does it really make that much of a difference where your people come from?' She answered her own question. ‘I suppose it does. I suppose I have an automatic reaction, thinking that Chinese and Japanese people are bound to be clever, good at music and maths; that Asian people make good traders; and that Afro-Caribbeans are the best at sport.'

‘You? You're pretty well colour-blind.' He chucked his empty bowl and spoon into the sink, from which it would have to be rescued to go into the dishwasher. ‘Now me, if I see a group of black youths hanging around a corner I think drink, drugs and knives – or guns. Which proves, I suppose, that I'm more racist than you.'

Bea laughed, for she knew very well that he treated everyone who came to them for a job with the same scrupulous courtesy.

Dishing up bacon and eggs, mushrooms, tomatoes and a slice of fried bread for him, plus a couple of rashers of bacon for herself, she wondered if the difference between Oliver and Zander was not one of racial background, but of their experience of life.

Looking at Oliver, scoffing food, checking his watch to see what time it was – where was he going that day? – dressed in quality casual wear, she reflected that, despite the trauma of being thrown out of the house and being disowned by his family, he was growing up to be remarkably well balanced. Yet Zander, with a similar middle-class background, wasn't. But of course you had to factor in what had happened to Zander recently.

Hmm. She sipped coffee, staring out of the window through the sycamore to the spire of the church. Should she go to church today? She might. Hamilton had gone most Sundays, but he'd said once that every person worshipped God in their own way, and that the ritual which suited one person, turned another off. He'd appreciated the beauty of St Mary Abbot's; he'd often dropped in there during the week to sit in a side chapel to be quiet and pray.

Bea had struggled to do the same, but somehow . . . it just hadn't worked for her. Her fault, doubtless.

Oliver got to his feet to drain the last of the cafetière into his mug, one eye on the clock. ‘I'm going out for the day. All right?'

‘Before you go, will you ask Zander to come in to see me? Today.'

He didn't like that. ‘What do you want to see him for? It's all settled, isn't it?'

‘If you can walk by on the other side of the road from an accident and say it's nothing to do with you, I can't.'

‘You want him to . . . do what?' Oliver was being ultra protective of his friend.

Bea told herself to take this slowly. ‘I want to talk to him, that's all. I want to discuss what steps might be taken to right the wrongs done to the Trust, and also to him personally.'

Oliver still didn't like it. Hesitated. Hovered. Frowned into the middle distance. Finally shrugged. ‘All right. It's your funeral . . . or maybe I should say it's going to be his?'

‘No funerals, by order. I'd like to see him this morning, if he's not going to church somewhere.'

Oliver looked relieved. ‘Oh, he will be. And then he helps out at some children's club or other on Sunday afternoons.'

Bea knew when she was up against a blank wall. It was good of Oliver to try to protect Zander, but in the long run was that the best thing for him? No. Toughen up, mate. The world's a sad old place, but if you cast yourself as a victim, then that's what you will become.

‘All right. Give me his phone number, and I'll have a word myself.'

‘I'll leave it on your desk.'

He wouldn't, of course. She remembered now that Zander had told her he didn't attend St Mary Abbot's church, but went to another one . . . now what was its name? St Philip's? Yes, that was it. Well, she could always catch up with him there. So she smiled at Oliver, said the weather forecast was good, and watched him depart – without leaving her the phone number.

St Philip's was probably not much older than St Mary Abbot's, but it was a completely different type of church. For one thing, it wasn't a national treasure built by Sir Gilbert Scott. It was a routinely pretty, stone-built Victorian church set in a garden at the end of a long road of individual houses built for the upper-middle classes. No busy traffic junction, no crowding in of expensive-looking shops as there was at St Mary Abbot's. No crowds. Peace and quiet. You had to pay big money to buy into this part of Kensington; though not, of course, as much as for Bea's own road, which was early Victorian at its cream stucco and large sash-windowed best.

Bea had decided it was a trifle too far for her to walk to St Philip's in what promised to be another hot day, so had taken the car. There was space for parking around the church. The garden was a haven, surrounded by shrubs and small trees, interspersed with bedding plants.

She'd intended to catch the mid-morning service but had mistimed her arrival to find it was due to finish in a few minutes' time. She wandered into the garden. Plenty of wooden seats, some in shade, some not. What a luxury in this built-up part of London!

She seated herself in the shade, half-listening to the hymn being sung inside the church. The words and tune seemed familiar, but she couldn't place them. She had never been a regular churchgoer, not like Hamilton. She'd caught a glimpse now and then of the extra dimension that belief in God and fellowship with other believers might make to her life. Most of the time she trusted in Him, but there were times – such as now – when her hold on her faith was shaky.

Sitting there in the garden with its evidence of loving care, she wondered if the members of the church cared as much about one another as they did about the church's surroundings.

She started awake as people began to leave the church at the end of the service, chatting to one another, shaking hands with the vicar. Children ran around in circles, chasing one another. A young father lifted a small child to perch on his shoulders. His wife tidied a baby into a pushchair. Older people appeared in clumps, some with walking sticks and two with Zimmer frames, helped along by younger people. There was a good mix of ages, cultures and colours. Well balanced. A knot of young people made arrangements to meet later. Churchgoers gradually spread through the garden and left by the gates on to the road. Some gave Bea a smile in passing; they must be used to people coming in from the road to rest awhile.

Finally the stream dwindled to a trickle, and stopped. No Zander. Bea gathered herself together and went into the church herself. Yes, he was there, stowing away an overhead projector. He took one look at her, and his shoulders slumped.

Aha. You know what I've come for, which means that Oliver told you I was on the warpath. Well, not the warpath, exactly. Or perhaps it was?

She said, ‘I thought I could treat you to lunch at a pub. I'm happy to wait till you've finished.'

He nodded, busied himself with this and that. Bea took a seat, looking around her. Yes, she liked this sort of church, light and airy.

Although she had the car and suggested going to a pub in the country, he said he had to be back at church for the afternoon children's club, so they went to a quiet local place nearby. Roast dinner for two. Not as good as Maggie's cooking, but not bad, either.

‘I must explain,' said Bea.

‘No need. Oliver warned me. Well, I might go back, but only on my terms. You do realize, don't you, that I'm no knight in shining armour?'

That deflated her. ‘What happened to make you change your mind?'

‘When I got back yesterday I found a letter from Major Buckstone—'

‘Is he the director who's been sympathetic towards you?'

‘Yes. Just a line or two to say that Lady Honoria would be taking over her husband's duties, and he hoped we'd be able to work together for the good of the Trust. If I had any queries, would I ring him at home. Which I did. I told him I didn't feel I could work for Lady Honoria and would forfeit a month's salary rather than return to the office and work out my notice. More in sorrow than anger, he pointed out that, if I went straight away, I would be putting the Trust in a very difficult position, leaving them without an office manager just when they'd lost their Maintenance Director. He said that of course he understood my position but, for the general good, couldn't I work out my month while they tried to find someone to take my place? He said that if I did so, he personally would see that I received some kind of bonus and an excellent reference. In fact, he thought he might have heard of a job which would suit me, through the old boy network.'

‘So you agreed to return.'

‘He was talking sense. Surely I can put up with her for a month?'

Bea was indignant. ‘He bribed you to stay. Oh yes, he did. Very cleverly. What's more, he did it in a phone conversation and not in a letter, so he can't be held to what he promised you.'

‘He's not like that.'

Bea sighed. ‘Zander, how you've managed to live to the ripe old age of whatever, I do not know. Why, even Oliver has more street savvy than you.'

‘Major Buckstone's a good man.'

‘I don't say he isn't sympathetic to your case, but his first allegiance must be to the Trust. Is he the one who normally deals with personnel? Is he the director for Human Resources?'